And so,

The close of another week, another seven days of pure life. All is at movement and play in the world. Glorious and of the epic have some daily tales unfolded; tales of victory: bright stripes of color that rise above the cloudy, the uncertain, the gray. The days where an orange strikes with chords of brilliant citrus: a flavor that scares shadow. Days when one finds much dark has been displaced.
Clouds have fallen! Defeated from their celestial heights, I see them fleeing. They flee from the sun. Bright victor, I give my praise to your wielder (whose hand has guided). A lament the clouds left; frozen tears falling like ashes--like feathers all the gray day. Reconstitute: add warmth. Like many frozen emotions, with the right temperature we water the world, and with the moistness comes the green, growing, living, breathing. Frozen things can't breathe: a little sun to warm them, and we all can.
I saw a bug this week! A bee! Portent of spring! Winter, your defeat is imminent: The bee (tiny bee) told me so.
Being, talking, reading, walking up a hill. Sitting, looking, feeling, laughing. A date. I went on a date. I feel I have defeated something... or rather, have succeeded at something. Have had a victory. Nothing need have fallen to grant this glory. A wonderful date. Hooray!
I felt a tree. I reached out and felt it. sturdy and solid. Rough, but graceful limbs spreading in the night light. A park in the evening, solitary and orange against street lamps. Serenity feels something like that tree, still slumbering. I read next to it.
The Sacrament. The greatest of victories. Once again that remembrance taken, that covenant made. Victory!
Victory.
A weeks victories.

Milk

I have often thought of death as a separation, A mere exclusion of one element from our progressive selves. One day with this understanding in mind I happened upon Milk. Milk, my dear readers, also separates. Cream and curd: Milk dies (of this I am very sure). In fact, some, when they drink their milk, want it thoroughly dead. Skim anyone? The cream can then be used for something delightfully fattening, while the substance we seek achieves a much more divine purpose (cheerios, 7:30 am in the morning). I wonder what they use the cream for? I wonder what you use milk for?

evoL

I read books and stories and poems filled with love or imitations of it, but after I glut myself on every description I find I still long for it. Perhaps love is not something to be quenched, then. Perhaps you do not dine on love until you've had your fill, but you constantly nourish it instead. Perhaps it is more like a tree that bears fruit. It isn't always sweet all the time, like apples, but it is always there, and then when it is properly nourished and taken care of you are able to feel the ecstasy of it and know what you have. And, perhaps dining on someone else' delicious love as captured by books and words is only temporary because you can never taste it or feel it again. It's kind of cruel.
Perhaps there is a purpose for Love in books, in poems, and in stories. Maybe we need to know what It is we long for. Maybe we discover the taste so we can cultivate it for ourselves. Maybe we have to taste it to know how to grow it. It might even be more than that. Perhaps we set our standards with what we learn. Perhaps we know what we want to be, and what we want love to be. Perhaps it helps us know what to expect, or what to look for. We need know the flavor we want. If we don't like the taste, than why did we grow the tree?
We need to know what we are getting into. We need to know what kind of fruit our love is. We need to taste it. It isn't a matter of simply what we can grow easiest. It is what will make us happy that matters. Us. That is how we quantify. We find that Love and we grow something unique just with it. That is where no book can provide a step by step manual. This is not unknown ground, though, it is our ground, and only our feet will tread it. There are no monsters there but what we have fed into our hearts. Be careful, then, there is no better measurement of who you are than what you find on that path, your path, of love.

Let me write

Make words, and fish for letters. Alphabet soup.
A resplendent day with every advantage of free will. My Tuesday begins in bed and ends in bed, with post-it notes and bright light in between. What weather! I soak up the sunshine and share it in class. Air is cool, the shine is warm. Shine on sun. (Shine shine shine).
Curious looks and curiouser reactions: there needs a fine line between expression and reservation. I know this. Being yourself has never been so difficult. Determine others! Read that: be according. We return to the sun: Steadfast, ambient. Ever after and always bright in the sky. Some like their cloudy days, some like their nights. Something between us and the sun. "Prolonged exposure" and cancer awareness, going blind. Then be we unified in this: need a darkened glass to shine through. Furthermore, does the sun rest from us? Clouds must make a fine audience. Have some alone time, you deserve it. We need it?
Understanding! With understanding comes confidence. Confidence is comfortable. Comfortable with who I am, confident in what, and understanding how. How I am. How to improve. How I act, how to, how not. Comfortable with who you are, and what you are, understanding that. Confident in that. I am confident in you. Oh all of you.
Jobs: I am getting one.
School: Learning!
People: Loving.

And life.

Skip Steps

Throughout my young life I wondered at my older brother's consistency. There seemed no reason for it; for waking up early and going to bed on time every night. For starting the day with exercise and a shower, for studying before doing any other activities. At these I wondered, but only halfheartedly.
I was what you would call soulless. I wasn't a being of thought; I was a being of impulse. From dawn to dusk I charged at whatever my temporal, temporary, desire was. Mostly games, the internet, and friends. Whenever what I sought was unavailable I would grumble and wait stagnantly. I was very impatient and always waiting.
“Stagnant” was my lifestyle. I was skipping to what I wanted most with such speed that I ended up ruining that which I skipped for. I didn't care. I would do it again and again and again every day, but eventually even I found I wasn't immune to the moments of reflection life thrusts upon us.
One day I was asked a blunt question by someone irrevocably close to me. My father queried at what kept me going. Was it the next great game? What about after that? It was then I realized I had no purpose. Furthermore, I was ruining what I had desired. My life was horrid as a person, and if not for my loving family and shining examples I would have come to this realization and have dwelt in despair, utterly humbling as it was.
It was at this time I really began to ponder my brother's non-impulsive lifestyle. I think it is only now I near fully understand why he had such consistency in his regime. I am reminded of a poster in my English teachers classroom titled “recipe for a good day.” While I will not relate the ingredients it listed I wish to use the perfectly phrased analogy it contained.
All of my brothers morning, afternoon, and evening actions were ingredients he mixed for a good day, and he always did them in order like a master chef making a cake. You couldn't rush to the end first or you would end up with a large mess; Disgusting to eat it, but also to live it. All of those days he strove to work and make perfect (though always fell short) were part of his preparations for something else, something I could only call his purpose. Slowly but surely he was preparing himself day by day, instruction on top of instruction, for his goals; his desires; his motives.
I watch now as he has achieved, succeeded, or surpassed all he originally set out to do, and yet still lives and plans on as an unstoppable force, and I likewise wonder at my own potential, still newly awakened. I wonder at my own consistent recipes for my own good days.